


"Nails"

by farad



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mag7 Bingo Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Daybook Bingo 3 combined with Bingos 2 and 1, blocks: Line 1, square 4, Vests, Vin and Josiah: sometimes it was better not to look for explanations, and Daily Rituals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Nails"

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to the awesome Huntersglenn for the thorough and conceptual beta. All mistakes my very own.

_"A nail is driven out by another nail. Habit is overcome by habit."_ \- Erasmus

 

Vin had noticed it long ago, back in the Seminole village, those first days together. Josiah had habits, ones the older man didn't seem to realize.

 

"Have you seen my pants?" Josiah pawed through the chest at the foot of his bed, a newer one that he had bought off a family moving back east several months before. The room seemed smaller now, with this bigger bed, but it was better than the small thing they'd had before, the one that had left both of them with cramps and kinks and not nearly enough sleep. The new shack – though it was over a year old – was better than the church itself, warmer because it was smaller, two rooms which meant the bedroom was private and closed, closer to the woodstove just on the other side of the wall. It was just out back of the church, a small building that Josiah had decided he needed for himself.

 

Though Vin suspected there was more to it than that.

 

"Ones on the corner down there?" Vin asked, not quite ready to open his eyes and look. He knew better, knew that the dark blue ones with the gold stripes were the ones Josiah had worn yesterday, but sometimes, if he had to step out to the outhouse, Josiah would go for the previous day's clothes.

 

Josiah voice was tired as he said, "Not those." So not a trip outside, but a plan to get ready for the day. Vin shifted on the bed, rolling onto his back, and forced his eyes open. It wasn't full day yet, rarely was when they got up, though it was past dawn, so that was something.

 

Slowly, he levered himself up, keeping the blanket close; it was getting cool this time of year, something he forgot when he wasn't sleeping alone. He blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his head as he watched Josiah hunt through stacks of clothes. Vin was warm, and his body was sated, a little tender in places but mostly relaxed. The contentment was the part he most hated to shake off in the morning, but Josiah sighed and straightened, closing the lid of his chest with a sharp snap.

 

Tuesday, Vin recalled. He'd never paid much attention to the days of the week, but since meeting Josiah, the names of the days, the pattern of them, and become important.

 

Sunday was Josiah's best pants and his best shirt, and his woven, heavy vest. Even in the heat of summer, he wore that heavy vest with its threads of red and blue and green standing out against the warm brown of the weave. Josiah's cross was bright against that vest, and Vin had finally figured out that it was the high cut of the vest, one that went up almost under Josiah's tightly buttoned collar, that made it the one he liked to wear on Sundays.

 

Mondays and Saturdays were the blue pants with the gold stripe, pants from his days in the Army. They were faded and worn, and Josiah seemed to spend more time patching them up than he did wearing them. No matter how many times Vin or anyone else suggested retiring them, Josiah merely shook his head and took up his needle. He had a worn blue shirt that he wore with them, not a military shirt, but one that seemed just as old, and a faded vest that might once have been a dark blue but now seemed mostly grey. His 'working clothes' as he called them, and he dedicated Mondays and Saturdays to doing hard work, if not for one of the people around town, then here at the church itself.

 

Tuesdays and Thursdays were his better work pants, not as old, not as faded, but not new. Brown pants with a tan shirt and a darker brown vest, one that seemed to have been made for him a long time ago. He did work in them, too, though it could be indoor as well as outdoor work.

 

Wednesdays and Fridays were other church days, so he wore his second best set of clothes: dark pants with a white shirt that had been mended but wasn't showing all the signs of wear, and the same woven vest that he wore on Sundays.

 

Vin watched as Josiah walked back and forth across the small space of the floor. He knew what was coming, knew in the same way that he knew what the wardrobe was, that the loss of the pants – the disruption of the pattern – had started the thoughts that were always so close to the top of Josiah's sharp mind.

 

Vin knew this pattern, knew he had time to stretch, to let the blankets fall back as he yawned, to sit up in the bed and run one hand through his hair, combing it back from his face and out of his eyes. When Josiah stopped pacing, his head bowed, his hands clasped together in front of his chest and just under his long chin, Vin knew, too, what to say.

 

"Ain't those pants on that chair in the next room, near the stove? Thought you said you needed to leave them there, to get 'em dry."

 

He watched the struggle in the older man, as he always did, the struggle for this man, this good, honest man, to reconcile himself once again to the fact that what he wanted, what he loved, was something that broke the pattern of his life.

 

Broke the security and comfort he had had living inside the temple of his father, as Josiah had so often called the building nearby.

 

He sat in silence as Josiah fought with himself, fought with the conflicting sides of his own strong beliefs.

 

Eventually, as always, Josiah drew a deep breath then slowly, to himself, he nodded once. "I believe you're right," he said, his tone low and soft. He walked toward the door of the bedroom, but he stopped just inside it. Once he walked out that door, he would be a different man, the one who wore that high-buttoned vest, the one whose collar was sharp and pointed, a man who didn't want to think about the other half of his life. The half spent here, in this room, with his vest flung uncaringly on the floor or against the wall or onto a chair. A vest abandoned, even disdained.

 

Vin knew that man best, the one who cast away his vest, but he also knew the price of that disregard. He watched now as Josiah drew in another long breath, and Vin searched for something to say, something that would head off the expected excuses for why they couldn't do this again, why it was wrong. This ritual, too, occurred at least once a week or so, putting space between them for a night or two, until Josiah couldn't bear the loneliness any more, couldn't bear to sleep in his small cot in the back room of the church, couldn't bear the emptiness of his two-room home.

 

This time, though, Josiah was faster, his words coming out in a rush. Unexpected words, now, so much so that they hung in the space between them for a time before Vin's ears actually understood that they were not what he had expected to hear.

 

"Why do you put up with it? Why do you put up with me?"

 

Vin let the questions ring for a while, knowing that Josiah knew the answers, yet also knowing how dangerous it was to voice them. They'd danced around it before, only to see the distance come quickly and last longer if he answered with the truth.

 

Instead, he threw back the blankets, ignoring the chill, and pulled himself out of the bed. He gathered his clothes, most of which Josiah had already sorted onto the foot of the bed in his search for his own lost pants. Josiah's gaze was heavy on him, full of worry and doubt.

 

And Vin felt, too, when the worry eased off, a lessening of concern as he buttoned up his own pants and pulled on his shirt. As he tied the collar closed, he looked up and smiled at Josiah. "Reckon it's a habit," he said.

 

As he walked toward the other man, he caught up the Tuesday vest from its place on the back of a chair. He held it out as he said, "Who we are out there is who we want others to see. But who we are in here is just us. Who you are without that vest is mine alone, just as what you see of me without this shirt is just for you. Reckon you don't want to talk about it, and that's fine. We are who we are and we want what we want. Good thing that most of the time, it's the same thing." He held Josiah's gaze as their fingers brushed, the vest slipping from him to Josiah.

 

Josiah blinked, then he looked down at the vest and slowly smiled. "Tonight's roast beef at the restaurant," he said slowly. "See you there?"

 

Vin shrugged. "If you want. I can make do if you don't, at the saloon. Inez don't mind the Judge's pay."

 

Josiah looked up as he shrugged into the vest. He buttoned it up slowly, a strange sight, this man in his shirt and vest and underdrawers. Stranger, though, were his words, so soft that Vin had to sort them in his head. "I know you can. But you don't have to. These vests are pretty hot, especially at night. Best to unbutton them early, let the cool air in." He looked up them, his grey eyes wide and sad.

 

Vin nodded, reaching out to still Josiah's fingers as they touched the top button, near his collar. "Long as you know that, I'll be back to help."

 

Josiah nodded, his big hand turning to catch Vin's and pressing it to the button, over his heart. "Good."

 

 


End file.
